


Up in the Air

by Galiko



Category: Kamen Rider Gaim
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-18
Updated: 2014-09-18
Packaged: 2018-02-17 21:24:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2323658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galiko/pseuds/Galiko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Takatora and Ryouma snippets, from start to finish. For Abi's contest, ala songfic challenge (30 Seconds to Mars - Up in the Air).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Up in the Air

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Paranoid_Affections](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paranoid_Affections/gifts).



_I've been up in the air, lost in the night._   
_I wouldn't trade an eye for your lies._   
_Your lust for my life._   
_Is this the end, hey?_   
  
_You were the love of my life, the darkness, the light._   
_This is a portrait of a tortured you and I._   
_Is this the, is this the, is this the end?_   
  
_I'll wrap my hands around your neck so tight with love, love, love._   
  
_A thousand times I tempted fate._   
_A thousand times I played this game._   
_A thousand times that I have said,_   
_Today, today, today._

 

~

Takatora has been teased about his own inexperience a dozen times, but he's fairly certain that Ryouma is no better off in some things.

 

Genuine affection comes to mind. Affection in all things, actually, because Takatora has never known something more infuriating than the way the other man lowers his lashes and smiles at him, than the way he leans in over his shoulder and breathes in his ear when he's trying work, than the way Ryouma just _won't_ use his family name in the workplace. 

 

"Stop it," Takatora finally tells him one day when he's had enough, and Ryouma just laughs. 

 

"No," he simply says, and there's never been any single thing more erotic than that stark refusal. 

 

~

 

Neither of them like being told _no._

 

Ryouma hates it more, Takatora observes. He hates the idea of being stifled, of being reined in, while Takatora has experienced that his entire life, and has at least become accustomed to it in most situations, even if he hates it. 

 

It's why he's usually the one that relents, and honestly, that's fine. 

 

Those are the days, stupidly enough, that he gives up on protesting and just lets Ryouma crawl into his lap, too excited and full of ideas to think and process, and Takatora can't help but be swept up with him. 

 

"I'm going to make you into a god," Ryouma breathes against his mouth, long-fingered hands fisted into the thick of his hair, and the breath's too stolen from Takatora's lungs for him to tell him _no, you don't need to._

 

~

 

High on success, drunk on knowledge, there are few better ways to spend an evening than with Sengoku Ryouma. 

 

Takatora thinks that he never goes home anymore. He's probably right, but it's fine. No one is there, but Ryouma is _here_.

 

They're in his own office this time rather than that lab, and chattered for hours about numbers, about possibilities, about _maybes_ and _there could be hope yet_. Slim slivers of hope, but hope all the same, and that giddiness is what has Takatora in Ryouma's lap for a change, straddling him in his own office chair, kissing him hard and long and desperate. 

 

It's probably the best thing he's ever done.

 

Ryouma's clothes are still hanging off of him, and Takatora's not much better. The only thing left is his white button-down, not so buttoned now, sweaty and plastered to his back. Ryouma's mouth is supple and wet against his own, every nerve in his body on fire, Ryouma's cock in his ass hot and hard and the hands wrapped around underneath his thighs enough to make his breath stutter and catch in his throat with every agonizingly _good_ roll of his hips.

 

Ryouma gets a hand up in his hair, sticky and damp, wrenches his head back, bites his throat until Takatora's own lips tremble. Ryouma's mouth is own a dark, hard nipple next, and Takatora's fingers are white-knuckled on the back of the chair, mouth open, his cock so hard against Ryouma's stomach when he grinds forward that he thinks he's going to die. 

 

Nothing, _nothing_ is better than fucking with the view of Zawame City at night just outside of the window--their city, the city he can't even see when his eyes are so glazed and their breath is fogging up the glass.

 

~

 

It never lasts forever.

 

Ryouma, Takatora has decided, is a destroyer. He’s always going to be, and it’s going to end up poorly for both of them if it continues at this rate. It doesn’t matter that he’s supposed to be Ryouma’s god--it doesn’t matter that he’s supposed to be his lover. 

It doesn’t matter. 

 

Ryouma’s eyes aren’t oddly kind and warm and strangely unfocused like they usually are when he talks about his plan now. They aren’t, because he doesn’t talk about plans at all. He talks about nothing, except maybe chocolate cake, and the occasions that he has it. 

 

_You get none of it,_ is the look that Ryouma gives him, and there’s nothing but an elaborate metaphor in his stare. 

 

Takatora doesn’t even know _why._

 

~

 

Maybe, that night that he was in the hospital wing, courtesy of _Ryouma’s_ failures for once--if he had just reached out, had just touched the man _once_ , that would have been enough. 

 

Truthfully, Takatora doubts it. With Ryouma, Takatora always doubts. It leaves him teetering and insecure, something that he’s never wanted to be a moment in his life. 

 

It’s only around Ryouma, it’s always only ever been around Ryouma, and it’s at least a dozen times more difficult now. 

 

~

 

Ryouma doesn’t shoot to kill. 

 

That’s the most bizarre part of it all, Takatora thinks. There’s nothing about Ryouma that would indicate anything other than _ruthless_. Then again, he can’t see the look on the man’s face when he does shoot. 

 

Maybe he missed. 

 

Takatora likes to think that Ryouma missed. He likes to think that Ryouma shot to kill him once and for all. He likes to think that Ryouma, at least, has at least a semblance of that honor in him. 

 

Maybe he never had it, though, and Takatora was just dreaming. 

 

~

 

Cracked ribs remind him of Ryouma’s hands vice-tight around his waist, and sweat trickling down his neck reminds him of Ryouma’s mouth on his neck, his tongue following those rivulets and lapping them up. 

 

Takatora sets his jaw, listens to Overlords talk about things he doesn’t entirely understand, and firmly vows _not_ to think about Ryouma at a time like this. 

 

~

 

Kouta is a good child, and Takatora sincerely wishes that he were his brother. 

 

He wishes, more than anything, that he could protect Kouta like he had _planned_ to. No child with eyes like those deserves to be hurt and thrust to the forefront of a war like this. 

 

And yet--

 

Yet, there is Mitsuzane, trembling and sharply resolute, his teeth bared and his eyes bright and wild. There is Mitsuzane, whom he also failed, and maybe, if he hadn’t spent so much time failing Ryouma--maybe here, he could have--

 

~

 

Drowning is no good. 

 

Takatora is very uninterested in remaining unconscious, but in this life, he has no more say in anything at all. 

 

On the other side, there will be Ryouma, he knows that. His hair is down, those shorts are terrible, and his lets are longer and stronger than any mere scientist’s ever would be. 

 

That’s because he’s Ryouma, and he is more than any mere scientist ever will be.  

 


End file.
